


A Little Push

by iminthewrongstory



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Arrow Necklace, F/M, First Time, Smut and Feels, dealing with grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:27:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iminthewrongstory/pseuds/iminthewrongstory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(or, Phil Ships It)</p><p>In the wake of New York, Coulson's death forces Natasha to reassess her feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Push

**Author's Note:**

> Because Scarlett Johansson - in costume! - is wearing a necklace with an arrow pendant on the set of Captain America: The Winter Soldier. Fic ensued.

She hadn’t seen him since Central Park.

The span of time in which they were dealing with monsters – about a week, all told – had taken on the foggy quality of a half-remembered dream. Except for the disjointed moments that stood out with freakish, vivid clarity; those she saw every time she closed her eyes.

And it all went back to three words, spoken over the phone in the calm, patient voice of a dead man.

 _Barton’s been compromised_.

Hours of waiting and worry punctuated by moments of terror. Hulk, Loki, Hulk (again). Facing off with her partner with murder on his mind and in his eyes. The desperate hope that he could be brought back to himself (back to her), not consciously giving him the same second chance he gave her all those years ago, her thoughts nothing more than a continuous stream of _no-no-no-no-no_.

She meant every word she said in that recovery room. She didn’t blame him for anything that happened while he was under Loki’s thrall, wouldn’t let him blame himself. But in the end she proved herself a coward. She didn’t tell him about Coulson.

She could justify it. Barton wasn’t ready to hear it. Then there was a battle to fight and he couldn’t afford the distraction. But all that was bullshit and she knew it. Because even after they’d won and the dust started to settle, she still didn’t tell him. She left that to Director Fury.

Natasha didn’t know the details of Barton and Coulson’s relationship before she joined SHIELD, figuring that it wasn’t any of her business. It was obvious that the two men shared a comfort and a camaraderie that they extended to no one else. Except, eventually, to her.

Slowly, things returned to what passed for normal in their line of work. The helicarrier remained docked in New York Harbor while it underwent repairs. Natasha attended her mandatory counseling sessions and told the SHIELD psychiatrists what they wanted to hear. Her physical injuries healed. She was cleared for active duty but not called for it, so she spent her days putting junior agents through their paces at the training center. Recruitment was through the roof; it seemed that the reality of an alien invasion had sparked in a lot of people the desire to serve their country.

Natasha worked herself to the point of exhaustion every day. Every night, she returned to her tiny apartment, forced herself to each something, and fell into bed. Then she got up in the morning and did it all over again.

Behind her stoic façade was pain and emptiness. She was paralyzed by a grief so deep she could barely recognize it, much less be able to deal with it. It wasn’t that she’d never lost a comrade – on the contrary, she’d lost dozens over the years. This was just the first time she’d let herself care. All Phil Coulson’s death proved was how stupid that was.

She threw herself back into her role of Black Widow, SHIELD agent and master assassin. She ignored texts from Stark whining about his precious tower and calls from Potts wanting to meet for coffee. When Hill approached her with an expression too compassionate for relaying orders, Natasha neatly avoided her. When she let herself think about Barton at all, it was to acknowledge that the grapevine was reporting he’d passed the barrage of psych evals but hadn’t been taken off enforced leave yet. She figured she’d hear if anything changed and firmly put the archer out of her mind.

A month after New York, Natasha was summoned to Fury’s office. The director regarded her with a look that, on anyone else, she’d call hesitant. “It is my responsibility to see to the disposition of Agent Coulson’s personal effects,” he said heavily. “To that end, I have something to give you.” From his desk he retrieved a thin silver chain with a pendant in the shape of an arrow. It was very subtle; the arrow was attached at both ends and, from just a few feet away, blended almost seamlessly with the chain.

Natasha recoiled in horror. All the emotion she was resolutely not feeling rose up in her throat, threatening to choke her. She shook her head, fighting panic. “No, I can’t.”

“Natasha,” Fury said in a voice that was terrible for its gentleness, “please, Phil would want you to have it.”

She took a deep, steadying breath and reached for the necklace. The tiny point of the arrow dug into her palm when she closed her fist around it. For several moments she sat there, grateful for Fury’s silence as she regained her bearings. Finally she asked, “Sir, is Agent Barton still confined to base?”

“He’s been released to recuperate at home.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Fury nodded, both acknowledgement and dismissal. Natasha made her way to the street, holding onto her outward poise by a thread. In the back of a cab, she fastened the chain around her neck. The minute trembling of her hands made the task far harder than it should’ve been.

Barton answered his door in sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt. His feet were bare and his hair stuck up in all directions, as if he’d been asleep. But judging by the deep shadows under his eyes and the way he held himself, he hadn’t slept in weeks. Maybe not since she’d seen him last.

“Natasha?” he said, familiarity and suspicion battling in his tone. “What are you doing here?”

She opened her mouth, fully intending to answer, and shocked them both by bursting into tears.

“Shit, Tash,” he gasped helplessly. He pulled her into the apartment and into his arms, closing the door behind her. She buried her face in his chest and sobbed – hoarse, choking, ugly sounds on the edge of hysteria. He just held her, rubbing her back and resting his cheek on her hair.

“I can’t believe that bastard got Coulson. What was Phil thinking, going up against Loki alone?” she said when she was able to draw enough breath. Clint stiffened, which set her off again. Slowly, she regained control, mumbling “I’m sorry” over and over.

He knew she wasn’t talking about drenching his shirt. “It’s okay. I understand why you couldn’t look at me. I can barely look at myself.”

She pulled back fully and scowled at him. “You’re an idiot.” That almost surprised a smile out of him, a quick twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I haven’t been avoiding you because I **blamed** you. God, Clint, we’ve been over this”

“Then why?” He was trying to hide the hurt. But she could hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes and his posture, and it settled in an ache in her own chest.

“I was trained not to get attached to anything or anybody. That was one of the first things the Red Room did, take away anything we showed a preference for. I didn’t think I was capable of that kind of emotion anymore. Then Phil’s death blindsided me. I couldn’t process how much it hurt because I **cared**.”

“I’m so, so sorry,” Clint whispered bleakly. “You never got the chance to tell him.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure he knew.” She made a face, pain and amusement in equal measures. “He was a lot smarter than either of us. But that’s not the point, so shut up and let me finish.”

She took a breath before continuing. “I didn’t think I could deal with going through that again. Loki had already come so close to taking you away from me. You got under my skin, Clint. I thought if I cut you out of my life, I could cut you out of me. But that was stupid. I was stupid. I can’t do it, and I won’t.” She gave him a fierce look. “I will not lose you.”

He stared at her, shame and disbelief and hope and love written on every inch of him. Unable and unwilling to contain it anymore, she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and dragging his mouth down to hers.

They crashed together in a frenzy born from years of trust and affection and carefully-concealed sexual frustration. Kissing madly, pulling at each other’s clothes, trying to get as close as possible. They stumbled blindly to the bed where she pulled him down on top of her.

His lips left hers, moving in a hot, wet slide down her neck and over her collarbone until he reached her breasts. He kneaded one in his hand while his mouth was on the other, sucking and nibbling on her sensitive nipple until she was writhing beneath him.

Then he continued his downward path until his face was between her spread thighs. He licked through her folds before fastening his mouth to her clit. She arched and shuddered and moaned.

“No!” she cried suddenly, tugging on his hair. He backed off immediately and looked at her with concern. The sight of him between her legs, his mouth wet with her juices, made her shiver deliciously. “I’m okay,” she panted. “Just need you inside me. Now.”

He gave her a wolfish smile. “I can do that.” He had a condom unrolled practically before she could blink. Then he was filling her, stretching her, in a hot, slick, sweet glide. “You still okay?” he ground out, felling her tight pussy pulse around him.

“I’ll be better when you **fuck** me,” she snapped as she dug her nails into his shoulders and pushed her hips up against his weight.

He chuckled breathlessly. “So bossy.” Years of sparring left him well-acquainted with her flexibility. He balanced on his knees and drew one of her legs over his shoulder, opening her up to him before pounding into her as hard and as fast as he could.

She tipped her head back and screamed. The climax tore through her, tightening all her muscles and making her see stars. His cock rubbed her g-spot with every thrust and she kept coming, endlessly, until he followed her with a shout.

He got rid of the condom and they lay tangled together. They didn’t talk. They needed to, but there was time for that. Later.

“Stay with me?” he murmured sleepily.

She kissed him sweetly before responding. “Of course.” She pulled the covers over them and ran her fingers through his hair until he fell asleep.

Natasha jerked awake hours later. She was disoriented for a split second before she remembered where she was and realized that Clint was thrashing next to her. She put a hand on his shoulder and called his name softly until he regained consciousness.

He sat up and put his head on his knees. She watched him silently until he let out a shuddering sound that was unmistakably a sob. Then she wrapped herself around him, pressed his face into her neck, and held him as he was buffeted by the storm of grief and guilt.

It was a long time before he calmed. Once he had, he pressed his lips to the arrow pendant at her throat before looking up.

“Feel better?” she asked.

He gave her a tiny, rueful smile. “A little.”

“Good.” She pulled him back into a slow, deep, thorough kiss. He eased down onto the bed with his arms still around her. She straddled his hips and broke their kiss just long enough to grab a condom.

They kept kissing as she slowly rode him. When he felt his orgasm approaching, he worked his hand between them and stroked her clit until she came with him. Satisfied, they fell asleep in each other’s arms again.

Two weeks later, Agents Barton and Romanoff were summoned to SHIELD’s central medical facility. Director Fury was waiting for them, though he ushered them into a private room without comment.

Phil Coulson was sitting up in the bed. He was thinner and paler than the last time they’d seen him, but very much alive. Clint froze, clenched his jaw and his fists, then turned on his heel and walked out. Natasha sent Coulson a look a mingled apology and exasperation before she followed.

“That went well,” Fury observed drily.

Coulson laughed. “That went better than I expected, actually. I suppose I should thank you for not letting me out of bed. Barton might have given in to the impulse to kick my ass.”

Natasha returned, alone. She crossed to the bed and stood there scowling fiercely with her arms folded over her chest. “What the hell, Phil?” she demanded.

“They didn’t think I’d make it until pretty recently. It’s only because of some Stark Tech – that Stark doesn’t know we have, by the way – that I’m here at all.”

“And it was better to tell us you were dead?”

“At the time, yes.”

Natasha considered that. Regardless of how bad the past weeks had been, she understood tactics and knew better than to take them personally. It was going to be hard enough helping Clint, who was taking it **very** personally, through this latest turn of events. She nodded.

“How’s Barton doing?” Coulson asked.

“Besides wanting to kick your ass? He’s recovering. And he’ll come around. Oh, you’ll want this back,” she said, reaching for the clasp of the chain with the arrow pendant.

Coulson’s hand on her arm stopped her. “No, Natasha, keep it. It’s yours now.”

She studied him for a long moment. “Okay,” she agreed softly. With a promise to come visit – and drag Barton with her – whenever she could, Natasha left.

The two men watched her go, then Fury sighed. “You better be right about this, Phil. God help us if I agreed to overlook the regulations against agents fraternizing just so you could play yente.”

Coulson grinned. “You’re gonna have to trust me, boss. I’ve known those two a long time. They’ll take care of each other and be stronger for it.” His smile softened to almost wistful fondness. “They just needed a little push.”


End file.
